I'm Not Your Superwoman
Yes, I know. . . it has been a while since I've updated this blog. It has also been a while since the end of summer vacation. Coincidence? I think not. :-)
Given that my last blog was sort of one long rant (and also my most viewed post by far. . . go figure), I planned on writing something a bit more sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows this time about my new job and how it's going. However, a conversation that I've been having with a young working mom this afternoon and evening has prompted me to save that topic for another day.
Let me clarify something right off the bat: what I am about to write has absolutely NOTHING to do with my own husband. The fact that I am sitting at Panera Bread and writing is due to his encouraging me to go chill for a while after I dropped off a preview copy of my book to a local bookstore. . . hoping to consign and do a book signing there, but that's also another story for another day. Everything I'm about to say here, he and I already get. I'm preaching this sermon to the people who don't - and as the inspiration was a young woman, which is proof that I'm not talking about myself :-), I'm admittedly aiming it more at men than I am at women. However, if you are a woman who doesn't get the truth of what I'm about to say, then you also need to pay attention. (If he's not getting time outs, he needs them, too.)
The picture here was taken on April 29, 2010. . . Price was 16 days old. In one sense, it's a sweet picture. . . sweet little baby curled up in perfect contentment on his mama's chest. (Geez. . . was he really that little?) However, for me, it's also a sad one. The focused look on my face as I'm typing away on the laptop stems from the fact that I was hard at work. . . maybe on lesson plans, maybe on a test. Who knows? I just know that I was on maternity leave and working away rather than simply enjoying the fact that my baby was sleeping peacefully on my chest. I had lived in this fantasy world that Price would arrive on his due date, that I could make a graceful exit on April 23, and that I could use the two weeks after spring break to prep for the four during which I would be gone. Instead, I was admitted to the hospital on April 12 and had to piece together plans and work for three classes, one of which I had never even taught and the other of which I had taught very differently the only other time that I had taught it, from my hospital bed and home for six weeks. (Experience is a great teacher: I had my classes planned out in step by step instructions through the beginning of November when Mariah was born, and I had my doctor put a no-work clause into my file. The second maternity leave was possibly the best eight weeks of my life.)
The bottom line: I was learning what it meant to be a working mom. Actually, I was learning how to be a mom, and I learned relatively early on that in order to be a sane mom, it was more critical than ever that I have time for myself. I have always required more alone time than the average bear, anyway, and that didn't suddenly change once I had a baby. As I've stated before, I still wrestle with guilt when I do take those breaks from my husband and children just to go be "Lee" for a while, but I'm better for it when I do - and so are they. I'm a lot less likely to lose it when Price suddenly wants a toy that he hasn't played with in months just because he sees his sister playing with it or Mariah rips the cover off the one-thousandth book that has crossed her path. I'm also a lot less likely to dissolve into tears when. . . okay, when basically anything happens. And I return the favor: I told Claude that the only way I'd agree to spend extra time in Augusta tonight is if he agreed to take his own time out later in the week. (We've already started looking at movie listings for him.)
So. . . for the guys who don't get it, let me explain a few things:
(1) No woman is Superwoman. She may work full-time, maintain the house, take care of the kids, schedule the doctors' appointments, and make cute crafts that she found on Pintrest. . . but if it looks effortless, that's only because she's extremely good at sleight of hand. To use an old analogy, ducks make gliding across the water look effortless, too. . . but they're paddling like crazy underneath the surface. She's paddling incessantly, and paddling gets exhausting after a while - as does keeping the fact that you're doing it quiet if you think that the man in your life won't understand. (Claude does not have this problem, for the record. I verbalize my paddling. . . as does he.)
(2) Home stuff is not woman stuff. . . it's people stuff. Guys, if you don't have the money for a sitter, you are not genetically incapable of watching the kids while she goes out for a while. (My husband is living proof of that.) Actually, I can promise you that most women who need this time would see your saying, "Go out for a while. . . I've got this," as a gift more valuable than a dozen roses, and it wouldn't cost nearly as much. And if you're not sure that you can do it, take baby steps. . . she can leave for 30 minutes, then an hour, and so on. Odds are pretty good that you can't do much damage in 30 minutes as you're learning.
(3) If your argument is that "my mama didn't do that," then keep in mind that doesn't mean that she didn't want to or need to. It's entirely possible that she bottled up a world of stress and frustration while she was pulling off her best June Cleaver impersonation (perhaps without the pearls) every day. That doesn't mean that she didn't love you with all her heart and that you weren't the most important people in the world to her - along with your dad if he was there - but she may have been keeping quiet a need for "her" time. On the other hand, it may have been that she just came from a different generation that didn't need those quiet moments occasionally. We live in a different world, and the needs aren't necessarily the same. Moms don't come in generic packages any more than anyone or thing else does.
(4) If your argument is that "she gets out and goes to work every day. . . isn't that time away?". . . uh, no. She's at WORK. Most women I know - present company included - don't bounce out of bed going, "Yea, buddy! It's time to get ready for WORK!" I know that I don't. In all likelihood, that's going to make her that much less likely to want to get away when she needs to because she's going to feel guilty for leaving the kids when she actually can be with them. (Again, see previous blog on this subject.) Time at work is not time away. . . time at work is just another role that she takes on. I am Lee the Wife, Lee the Mama, Lee the Writer. . . throwing Lee the Teacher into the mix means I'm pulled into yet another direction and quite often makes me that much crazier. I don't need therapy, but time to myself away from home serves that purpose in a much more economical way.
(5) Do you have times out with "the boys"? At your computer playing video games? Glued to the TV absorbed in your myriad of sporting events? Down in the basement playing with Legos? Curled up with your nose in a book? Then explain to me why you need it and she doesn't. *Taps foot impatiently while waiting for an answer*
Let her go for a little while, guys. Do it for her sanity. Do it for your sanity. Do it for the harmony of your home. But most of all, do it simply because you love her.
And if you can't. . . maybe it's time for a little bit of self-examination, huh? You may think you're living your life imagined, but are you really if she isn't?
Given that my last blog was sort of one long rant (and also my most viewed post by far. . . go figure), I planned on writing something a bit more sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows this time about my new job and how it's going. However, a conversation that I've been having with a young working mom this afternoon and evening has prompted me to save that topic for another day.Let me clarify something right off the bat: what I am about to write has absolutely NOTHING to do with my own husband. The fact that I am sitting at Panera Bread and writing is due to his encouraging me to go chill for a while after I dropped off a preview copy of my book to a local bookstore. . . hoping to consign and do a book signing there, but that's also another story for another day. Everything I'm about to say here, he and I already get. I'm preaching this sermon to the people who don't - and as the inspiration was a young woman, which is proof that I'm not talking about myself :-), I'm admittedly aiming it more at men than I am at women. However, if you are a woman who doesn't get the truth of what I'm about to say, then you also need to pay attention. (If he's not getting time outs, he needs them, too.)
The picture here was taken on April 29, 2010. . . Price was 16 days old. In one sense, it's a sweet picture. . . sweet little baby curled up in perfect contentment on his mama's chest. (Geez. . . was he really that little?) However, for me, it's also a sad one. The focused look on my face as I'm typing away on the laptop stems from the fact that I was hard at work. . . maybe on lesson plans, maybe on a test. Who knows? I just know that I was on maternity leave and working away rather than simply enjoying the fact that my baby was sleeping peacefully on my chest. I had lived in this fantasy world that Price would arrive on his due date, that I could make a graceful exit on April 23, and that I could use the two weeks after spring break to prep for the four during which I would be gone. Instead, I was admitted to the hospital on April 12 and had to piece together plans and work for three classes, one of which I had never even taught and the other of which I had taught very differently the only other time that I had taught it, from my hospital bed and home for six weeks. (Experience is a great teacher: I had my classes planned out in step by step instructions through the beginning of November when Mariah was born, and I had my doctor put a no-work clause into my file. The second maternity leave was possibly the best eight weeks of my life.)
The bottom line: I was learning what it meant to be a working mom. Actually, I was learning how to be a mom, and I learned relatively early on that in order to be a sane mom, it was more critical than ever that I have time for myself. I have always required more alone time than the average bear, anyway, and that didn't suddenly change once I had a baby. As I've stated before, I still wrestle with guilt when I do take those breaks from my husband and children just to go be "Lee" for a while, but I'm better for it when I do - and so are they. I'm a lot less likely to lose it when Price suddenly wants a toy that he hasn't played with in months just because he sees his sister playing with it or Mariah rips the cover off the one-thousandth book that has crossed her path. I'm also a lot less likely to dissolve into tears when. . . okay, when basically anything happens. And I return the favor: I told Claude that the only way I'd agree to spend extra time in Augusta tonight is if he agreed to take his own time out later in the week. (We've already started looking at movie listings for him.)
So. . . for the guys who don't get it, let me explain a few things:
(1) No woman is Superwoman. She may work full-time, maintain the house, take care of the kids, schedule the doctors' appointments, and make cute crafts that she found on Pintrest. . . but if it looks effortless, that's only because she's extremely good at sleight of hand. To use an old analogy, ducks make gliding across the water look effortless, too. . . but they're paddling like crazy underneath the surface. She's paddling incessantly, and paddling gets exhausting after a while - as does keeping the fact that you're doing it quiet if you think that the man in your life won't understand. (Claude does not have this problem, for the record. I verbalize my paddling. . . as does he.)
(2) Home stuff is not woman stuff. . . it's people stuff. Guys, if you don't have the money for a sitter, you are not genetically incapable of watching the kids while she goes out for a while. (My husband is living proof of that.) Actually, I can promise you that most women who need this time would see your saying, "Go out for a while. . . I've got this," as a gift more valuable than a dozen roses, and it wouldn't cost nearly as much. And if you're not sure that you can do it, take baby steps. . . she can leave for 30 minutes, then an hour, and so on. Odds are pretty good that you can't do much damage in 30 minutes as you're learning.
(3) If your argument is that "my mama didn't do that," then keep in mind that doesn't mean that she didn't want to or need to. It's entirely possible that she bottled up a world of stress and frustration while she was pulling off her best June Cleaver impersonation (perhaps without the pearls) every day. That doesn't mean that she didn't love you with all her heart and that you weren't the most important people in the world to her - along with your dad if he was there - but she may have been keeping quiet a need for "her" time. On the other hand, it may have been that she just came from a different generation that didn't need those quiet moments occasionally. We live in a different world, and the needs aren't necessarily the same. Moms don't come in generic packages any more than anyone or thing else does.
(4) If your argument is that "she gets out and goes to work every day. . . isn't that time away?". . . uh, no. She's at WORK. Most women I know - present company included - don't bounce out of bed going, "Yea, buddy! It's time to get ready for WORK!" I know that I don't. In all likelihood, that's going to make her that much less likely to want to get away when she needs to because she's going to feel guilty for leaving the kids when she actually can be with them. (Again, see previous blog on this subject.) Time at work is not time away. . . time at work is just another role that she takes on. I am Lee the Wife, Lee the Mama, Lee the Writer. . . throwing Lee the Teacher into the mix means I'm pulled into yet another direction and quite often makes me that much crazier. I don't need therapy, but time to myself away from home serves that purpose in a much more economical way.
(5) Do you have times out with "the boys"? At your computer playing video games? Glued to the TV absorbed in your myriad of sporting events? Down in the basement playing with Legos? Curled up with your nose in a book? Then explain to me why you need it and she doesn't. *Taps foot impatiently while waiting for an answer*
Let her go for a little while, guys. Do it for her sanity. Do it for your sanity. Do it for the harmony of your home. But most of all, do it simply because you love her.
And if you can't. . . maybe it's time for a little bit of self-examination, huh? You may think you're living your life imagined, but are you really if she isn't?
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